Her Deal With The Greek Devil (Mills & Boon Modern) (Rich, Ruthless & Greek, Book 2) - Caitl Caitlin Crews (well read books txt) 📖

sort of breath—a soft sound of surrender—Molly reached around to the side, where the zipper of the current dress she was wearing was cunningly concealed, and zipped it down. She let the gown fall, then pool around her feet, then she kicked it aside.

She let him look at her for a moment, stood there in nothing but heels and a push-up bra, and then she kicked her shoes aside and pulled off the bra at the same time. It was so easy to undress, she thought a little wildly, even though it took hours to get her looks put together so she could look effortless in public.

That is because fashion is always about sex, a beauty editor had once told her grandly.

Tonight Molly agreed.

Naked, she glided across the room until she stood before Constantine. And the longer she looked at him, the more her heart thundered inside her chest.

And the slicker, and hotter, she felt between her legs.

“Beg,” he ordered her, though his voice sounded slightly hoarse. Rough like his hands would be against her skin. “And make it good, Molly. I’ve been waiting for it for a long, long time.”

Molly took a deep breath. She wanted to smile but found she couldn’t.

Instead, she did the only thing she could.

The thing she’d been wanting to do for longer than she cared to admit.

She sank down onto her knees before the devil himself, tipped her head back so he could see her face, and begged.

CHAPTER EIGHT

AT LAST.

Constantine had waited so long. All the plotting. All the planning. The angry seed of vengeance that had been planted so long ago when his father had brought home a new bride. The small, wiry green shoot of fury that had developed when dreamy Molly, unaccountably, had shot to prominence as Magda.

Those years when he’d seen her face everywhere. Like a taunt.

And the exquisite, almost unbearable weight of what had dragged on between them now for nearly a month.

All for this.

This.

He would not say that he was used to her nakedness by now, for who could ever grow used to the sight of such perfection? He would sooner be dead than used to her.

But it was a different thing altogether to see her on her knees before him, graceful and gorgeous, and her head tipped up to him. Showing him, in case he’d had the slightest shred of doubt, that she hungered for him as he had always dreamed.

As he had been so sure she would.

Those arctic blue eyes were filled with heat, and Constantine could feel the weight of her hunger, its sharp claws, deep in his sex.

He could not wait to get inside her at last.

But all he did was swirl his drink in his glass and regard her idly. As if he was on the verge of boredom, but was trying to be polite, and he had the pleasure of watching her expression change as he looked at her.

He wanted her off balance, even on her knees. Maybe especially on her knees.

“That is a very pretty picture you are presenting to me, Molly,” he murmured. “But that is your stock in trade, is it not? Pretty pictures. Pretty images. None of them you. You don’t even use your own name.”

“Did I misunderstand the stage directions?” she asked, and for some reason, the warm undertone in her voice, that thread of laughter when surely she should have been more mindful of her own surrender, was nearly his undoing.

Why was it that he could not seem to remember that what was happening here was serious? It was revenge. It was not the place for laughter. He should not have liked her.

“This is the trouble with beautiful women,” he told her, and it was harder to sound as disaffected and jaded as he usually did.

But then, that was nothing new. He had been acting unlike himself when it came to Molly for far longer than he cared to recall.

Once again he was struck by how at ease she was in her skin. It was powerful. It made her seem something like mystical, adding to the glory of all her elegance. She settled back on her heels now, her breasts jutting out and her blue eyes gleaming with more than simply that hunger, now.

God, the ways he wanted her.

Especially when she smiled at him, that clever little curve of her lips that made him feel almost...silly. “I can’t wait to hear the thoughts of an inveterate bedpost-notcher when it comes to women,” she said. “Such things are always so incisive and hard-hitting, aren’t they? And not at all patriarchal. I’m surprised you haven’t already written a book on the subject, given how many women’s names you’ve likely forgotten in your time. In the last week, even.”

“Here is the thing about beautiful women,” Constantine said again, refusing to rise to her bait. And then, as he considered it, astounded that he had to caution himself against such a thing in the first place. “A beautiful woman assumes that the fact of her is sufficient. That she need not think or do or say anything further. She exists, therefore that is all that need be expected of her. Her mere appearance on any scene should do all the thinking, doing, or speaking necessary, and she therefore assumes it will.”

Molly’s head canted slightly to one side, and he could no longer see any of that humor in her gaze. He should have been thrilled.

He told himself he was thrilled.

“Beautiful women are born with a face that they did not choose,” Molly said quietly. After a moment that stretched on too long for Constantine’s comfort, and he was the one who was in control. He was not the one on his knees. “And they are taught, over time, that people will react to that face. That strangers and loved ones alike will treat that face in ways that have absolutely nothing to do with the person behind it. You learn quickly that it is far better to simply present